Conductor of Light
by Otto Von Longshanks
Summary: Everyone has a manu meridiem; bioluminescence in the palm of your hand. The colour of this is supposed to help you to find ... not quite your soul mate, though some call them that - rather, your Potential.
1. Chapter 1

"We're at a park," said the lanky young man, pointing out the obvious. "This feels right to you?"

"Yep," John Watson replied to his friend. "This ... this is it."

Bill Murray grinned broadly at him. "Soak up the feeling mate; it'll be a long while before you're back here again."

They wandered down a thin concrete pathway, stopping every few metres for John to ensure they were headed in the right direction. Locating your Soul's Home – the place that irritating internal urge was constantly demanding you go to – was the antithesis of navigation in the Army. No compass, no gps, no calculations, this was just following the natural call of every cell in your damn body shrieking get your arse there immediately. It was, John thought, possibly how migratory birds felt come autumn.

"How the hell are we going to survive deployment," John muttered, "with this frigging craving? It's not going to shut up the moment I leave this patch of South London. I don't give a shit what our training said; that bit's going to be bloody rubbish."

"Well, once we find your Soul's Home, we can stay as long as you want. Provided you're not one of those 'sacred place of reverence and worship' type nutters," Bill said.

John smiled. "I'll be fine, really. Just venting. Still a bit irritated we miss the next Great Lustrum."

"How many have you been to?"

"Three – first one when I was seventeen, then all the rest since. You?"

"Same. Still no luck though."

John's instincts took them off the path and across a slightly ill maintained patch of grass. "They're pretty elusive, those Potentials. Maybe ours are war veterans, and they're already in Afghanistan."

"I thought you thought yours was a doctor? Or a nurse?" Bill smirked as they reached a gravel path. John flushed slightly.

"For the past decade my Soul's Home has been St Barts. A chemistry lab, if you have to know. What else was I to assume? And now it's moved to some god forsaken park. I mean what the hell am I meant to work out from that?"

"Mine was a once at a Tesco."

John snorted. "Which aisle?"

"Tea. Oh, shut it!"

And John did – his laugh cut quite short as they reached a dark stone fountain. Circular and deep, water trickled in sluggish lumps down its centre piece; an unimaginative stack of basins. John stared at it, slowly reaching to touch its base. His manu meridiem caused the granite to gleam orange yellow before John was clutching it tightly.

"I'm here." He whispered. "This fountain. It's my Soul's Home."

Bill gazed in wonderment at this place that had so much significance to his best friend, and said in an awed voice, "It's covered in bird shit."

John splashed him.

It was the best part of ten years before John's hand broke the stillness of the fountain's water again. It was slightly ridiculous how early he'd shown up – his watch read quarter past ten, and he'd already been sitting here for three goddamn hours. Really, it was quite cold, waiting by the fountain. Its dark stone had captured the frostiness from the light snowfall and seemed determined to inject every last bit of it into his arse. Who the bloody hell decided to make the Great Lustrum fall on the last day of January?

Very few of the park's dwellers had been deterred by the sun's enjoyable but unspectacular setting, and it remained unusually busy. But then again, this wasn't an average day. This blasted, still covered in bird shit fountain probably held the same significance to a lot of the people hanging around as it did to John. Waiting anxiously for midnight.

Well, significant to enough people that some poor young girl was stuck at the entrance handing out fliers for some company probably paying her 50p an hour. The only people employable on this day were the ones whose manu meridiem hadn't started shining yet.

John pulled the scrunched flier out of his back pocket, flexing it towards to pale street lights. His breath tumbled as vapour as he folded it out to read it properly. He needed to distract himself from the trepidation that had been building for weeks now. Army honed senses were over analysing every person milling around. He'd probably be insane by the time midnight managed to happen.

Right, reading. Distraction.

ARE YOU READY TO MEET YOUR POTENTIAL? The headline screamed at him. Everything you need to know about Colour Significance and Lumen Manifestation!

Ugh. Colour significance? John almost gave up on the gaudy pink flier then. The whole match-making take had been gaining a lot of popularity recently. Never mind the fact that your Potential could have any role in your life – most commonly they were a mentor, a friend or a colleague.

People – and no doubt companies like 'Lumen-ificance', the flier's distibuter – were attaching all sorts of stupid words like 'soul mate' and 'wing share'. Psychoanalysing the colour of your manu meridiem was obvious. If your palm happened to glow red, then it was practically a given you'd end up shagging your Potential. It was worse than Valentine's Day.

This ridiculous flier had managed to take it one step further. According to it, your palm wasn't glowing 'red' – no, was it ruby or garnet? How pretentious.

And what does that mean for your future with your Potential? Rubies have long been associated with beauty and nobility. A deep ruby colour indicates you have a knack for wisdom in decision making, and who can forget the romantic undertones ...

This pamphlet was made of gossip. John couldn't understand how people actually believed this tripe.

Opalescent is the rarest of all manu meridiem, and is characterised by its natural variety of hues, capable of expressing every colour in the visible spectrum. When lumen is sparked, it is said the different colours swirl like fire. It is revered above all others.

White meridiem are classified into two groups: diamonds and pearls. The former is said to be the original form that manu meridiem took when our bioluminescence first evolved, and is therefore the most pure. It is a very clear light. It indicates innocence, but also great promise. The latter is more easily visible, with a cloudy pearl sheen. If this is you, you are blessed with dignity and tranquillity.

For all his ideals of resolutely not giving a toss about this brand of pseudo-science, it was surprisingly engaging. Like comparing all of the horoscopes to see which one contained the most nonsense.

Emerald meridiems have been long admired, especially in the wake of Queen Victoria I, whose brilliant green she shared with Prince Albert was famous throughout the empire. It has strong associations with healing and truth seeking.

So which bloody gemstone was he supposed to be?

Topaz. Yellow meridiems have a strong sense of fun about them. Potentials with this colour can be assured a deep friendship will develop...

Nope. He'd reached his bullshit threshold for one day. The pamphlet went back into the pocket and out came the phone. Twenty past ten. This was agonising. John's heart quickened against instruction as two more people entered the park.

Any one of these people around me – any of them! Could be my Potential. I could be looking at them right now! John's frenzied mind insisted.

Ella had specifically warned him against this. He really had to calm down and keep his hopes in perspective. His Potential didn't have a great track record with showing up to Great Lustrums.

Great Lustrums been invented to allow the population to meet their Potentials, with a public holiday every five years so you could journey to your shared Soul's Home and find your prospective partner. He'd even gotten a bonus in his army pension specifically for it, to cover travel costs. With the explosion in industry productivity that occurred in the aftermath of each Great Lustrum it was in the government's interest to make sure as many Potentials met as possible.

Society taught you there were two things you needed. A romantic partner; and your Potential. Sometimes they were the same person. John had neither.

John clacked his cane against the pebbles underfoot. In a way it was enjoyable to sit here, and have the urge finally sated. The craving that had gnawed at him for long hours in the Afghani desert, changed into satisfaction – he was almost happy, for the first time in months. It was like a rubber band that had been pulled perpetually taut and only now was it relaxed. Though the park held memories of Bill, and Bill was still in Afghanistan. And terribly missed.

Twenty-two past ten. The space-time continuum had been displaced. That was the only explanation for the crawling minutes.

When waiting for long hours during the war John had practiced reciting Afghani numbers. There didn't seem much point to that now.

Twenty-two and a half past ten.

Anything would be better than this agony. Even the flier. John flattened out its abused paper.

The double spread had a feature on lumen manifestation. Besides the whole colour thing, there was the spectacular lightshow that occurred when two matching manu meridiem touched for the first time, known as lumen. The normal soft light that developed during puberty would explode outwards and curl around its owners. The flier helpfully provided horrendously medically inaccurate illustrations of the various levels of manifestation that could occur. Did people seriously think that little comets of light would spin around them?

In actuality the lumen's shape was very reminiscent of a magnetic field. John had seen it quite a few times at his previous Great Lustrums. One had been rather small, barely extending past that pair's arms, but another had been quite a sight, reaching beyond their bodies to encase them in a loose cage of lime green lumen.

It was only in textbooks that John had seen the largest of the lumen – when it extended back beyond the person, like at the poles of a magnetic field. Bursting from their shoulder blades, it was likened to a wing structure – hence the pet name from the Valentine's Day industry. The stupid flier had depicted it as some form of angel wings. Complete with feathers. John sneered at the drawing in disgust.

When things became weird, and no matter what anyone said, the whole Potential business was tinged with weird, John stuck to the facts. Your Potential was the one who would reveal to you – well, your true potential. The one who, often in some form of partnership, worked best with you. And vice versa. Whether the largest, wing form of lumen signified a particularly powerful compatibility between two people hadn't been scientifically proven... but everyone knew about Lennon and McCartney's white lumen manifestation.

John stuffed the annoying flier back into his pocket. Whether his hand was trembling from the cold, or post-traumatic stress disorder, he couldn't quite tell.

Ella said it was post-traumatic stress disorder. But he was a doctor too, and he knew that if it was, stressful situations were supposed to make it worse. Not heal it.

Maybe that's what his Potential would be; someone who stressed him out so much the intermittent tremor would fix itself and he could return to surgery. God, he needed to stop imagining things like that. But when meeting them would transform his life, and hopefully release him from the pathetic shell of an existence he was stuck in ... it was hard not to.

That was such an unhealthy thought. It wasn't up to someone else to fix his life for him; he had to do that on his own. His Potential didn't owe him anything; was under no obligation to even talk to him after they met. But since being delivered home ... just ... nothing happened to him. And he was exhausted.

Annoyed at himself, John wrenched himself up from the cool stone; perhaps a walk would clear his mind. The snow had moved on now, but freezing air bit at his exposed skin and made this shoulder and leg ache.

Who'd want him as their bloody Potential anyway? Oooh, a traumatised, depressed and invalided ex soldier? Freaking Christmas for no one. Some sort of government rehabilitation scientist, maybe.

As he mulled this over, John clacked down the thin concrete path snaking through the trees. Away from the street lights, and only a thin moon hanging in the sky, it was quite dark. Usually he'd point his left palm down and let his soft yellow manu meridiem light up the path – not quite an option tonight.

It was unspoken, but everyone knew the glove rule.

He was pretty sure the phone Harry had given him had a torch somewhere, but damned if he knew how to use that thing. Darkness it was, then.

If his Potential didn't show up tonight, maybe ... he'd try and get a job at a clinic. Maybe get a flat share? You can't afford London on an army pension, and John was loathe to live anywhere else.

Half ten! John limped passed a teenager sitting tensely on a bench, chewing her lip to pieces and clutching her right hand. Her first Great Lustrum. Maybe not everyone knew about the glove rule after all – a mauve manu meridiem was lighting her face softly.

Perhaps she just didn't care. John shared the sentiment; if it wasn't for the frigid temperature he'd have done away with them hours ago. After Afghanistan it seemed petty and trite.

Okay, he could appreciate the showmanship of everyone whipping off the gloves when the clock hands hit 12, finding their manu meridiem's colour on another person and finally locking hands with their Potential – but a big part of him just wanted it over.

Two people who could only be her parents stood nearby, holding hands. They were matching Potentials, sharing a deep velvet blue that glowed on their respective dominant hands. Thin tendrils of lumen were peeling off their palms; it never quite goes away after the first meeting. John gazed at it wistfully before heading back vaguely in the fountain's direction.

Impatience for midnight was clearly a feature in the park's occupant's minds. John could see two manu meridiem gleaming in the darkness – a rich, forest green and a dusky orange.

The dusky orange-! The thought struck John with enough force to freeze him in his tracks.

Harry. That was Harry's colour!

No.

No, her's was paler.

I think.

John's gloved hands flew to his phone.

[Outgoing text to: Harry Watson. 22:34]  
Are you doing the GL tonight?

[Incoming text from: Harry Watson. 22.36]  
Yes. At my Soul Home. You?

[Outgoing text to: Harry Watson. 22.36]  
Same. Where would that be?

[Incoming text from: Harry Watson. 22.37]  
Near the London Eye. Little bakery. Why?

[Outgoing text to: Harry Watson. 22.39]  
Never mind. Good luck tonight.

[Incoming text from: Harry Watson. 22.40]  
You thought you saw someone with my meridiem colour, didn't you? Don't forget, mine's the one whose glow is piss weak.

[Outgoing text to: Harry Watson. 22.42]  
Harry, I've explained this so many times. The wattage of your manu meridiem is not an indicator of anything.

[Incoming text from: Harry Watson. 22.42]  
Wish you'd explain that to society.

John sighed resignedly and slid his phone away. Any communication with Harry was an ordeal, and with the entire country highly strung on nerves tonight it'd only go downhill from here. He sat back down next to the fountain, leaning against its smooth stone edges and letting it act as a wind break.

His stupid glove was itching, though probably because he was paying so much attention to it. There was still a bit over an hour to go until midnight, but hell. People were starting early anyway – a few more pinpricks of coloured light speckled the park.

John gently eased the wool off his fingers, the welcoming beams of his manu meridiem gleaming in the darkness. He scratched out the itch luxuriously, so focused on his task that when the gravel in front of him crunched loudly John started.

He quickly closed his hand into a fist, shutting out most the strong golden light.

A tall, dark haired man with a long coat, and scarf whipping in the frigid wind stood before him. The park's lighting silhouetted his features, but not the tightly gloved hand extended towards John.

John found himself standing very suddenly. He began to return the handshake but the man shook his head impatiently and gently grasped John's rigid fist instead. John allowed the man to turn it over, palm side up, and uncurl his fingers.

Golden yellow light bathed both their faces, abolishing the darkness that made them anonymous, and John saw fiercely intelligent eyes scrutinise his manu meridiem and his own face in turn. John was finding it hard to swallow, and his heart was somewhere around his throat, beating like a madman.

The man released John, and without any hesitation gracefully extracted his own hand from its leather covering.

And John knew how it felt to see his golden light dancing in a palm that was not his own.


	2. Chapter 2

The man lifted his also rather strong manu meridiem and swept it over John's body as one would a torch. To John's embarrassment his cane, still lying on the ground, and leg were a prolonged focus point. The man lingered his hand over John's wrist rather tantalisingly, the owner of which was still rendered unable to move, and much less speak. Then, almost as though a search had been completed, the foreign hand was snapped away.

And pulled out a mobile phone.

"Lestrade just texted me," said the man conversationally. "There's been another serial suicide. A fourth."

"Um..." was the only sound John could pull from his throat. His stupid hand was still extended, expectantly, but the stranger had turned away to focus on typing out a response to whoever the hell Lestrade was.

John lowered his hand, rubbing it on his jeans – it had become ridiculously clammy. He nodded sheepishly at the park's other inhabitants who'd gathered to watch, not sure if he was reassuring them or himself.

The man's phone chimed and whatever he read caused an explosion of glee across his bizarre face. "And a note!" he cried. He grinned eagerly at John, and before John could fathom a reply, dashed away.

"What?" John said, completely startled. "Wait!"

His supposed Potential's legs were far too long and John was running to catch him.

"Are – are you my Potential?" John said when he'd reached the man. To his surprise the man rolled his eyes in distaste.

"Don't tell me I've been landed with an idiot," the man muttered audibly. Noticing John's indignant expression, added, "Oh don't be like that, practically everyone is."

"Look," John said stiffly. "We've only just met, and -"

"Are you always this obvious?"

John stopped walking. "Sorry, I was under the impression you're my Potential. If I've got that wrong, just tell me and I'll leave."

The man looked slightly subdued for a moment. Then he announced, "Yes, good reminder – I've got my eye on a nice place in Baker Street. That will be much more efficient. Together we should be able to afford it. I don't imagine your army pension will get you very far in London otherwise."

And he stalked off again.

Utterly flummoxed, John jogged to keep pace. So ... they were Potentials? In all his lifelong day dreams and imaginings of this moment, nothing had come remotely near to the way this night was progressing. And how the hell did this guy know he was in the army?

And why was he putting his glove back on?

"Is that it, then?" John called out.

The stranger, having reached the road, whipped around to face John. Pale irises stared deeply into his and without breaking the eye contact that was causing John's heart rate to skyrocket once again, said, "Is that what?"

John smiled tightly. "We only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat. Matching your manu meridiem by sight is enough?"

The man looked oddly confused. "Problem?" he asked, reaching an arm out to flag down a taxi.

"We haven't even joined hands. I don't even know your name."

"Sherlock Holmes." He replied readily.

"I'm John Watson."

They shook gloved hands as a cab drew up beside them. John couldn't begin to describe the absurdity of that action.

"Is there a military title before that name, John?" The man – Sherlock? – asked as he opened the cab's door for him.

"Captain. Or Doctor." said John, sliding in. Surprise flit across his Potential's face before settling as warm approval.

"Army doctor..." Sherlock breathed, then called to the cabbie, "Lauriston Gardens, if you please." He was about to enter the cab himself when he cried, "OH!" in furious delight and pulled out his phone again.

Behind him, unnoticed, the door slammed shut and the taxi pulled away from the curb.

"Of course," Sherlock muttered as he typed. "The green ladder!"

When he turned around, both John and the cab had vanished.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sorry ... John," said a calm female voice, issuing from the front seat John had thought empty. "For the intrusion."

John hastily unbuckled his seatbelt. "Stop this taxi; let me out immediately."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," she said tonelessly.

Unfurling deep inside his chest the call was resuming, seemingly stronger after the few hours of respite. And for once John agreed whole heartedly with his biology; he need to get back to the fountain. Back to Sherlock. John's mouth set in a firm line. "Right then," he said, and when the car slowed to take a corner, lifted the door handle and threw his weight against it.

Nothing happened.

"I really wouldn't cause any trouble. John." said the woman. Without looking up from her phone, she threw something small and black into his lap.

He opened up the leather envelope.

MI5 – The Security Service – Identification Card.

Anthea Cook

Clearance Level: Grade 10, Ultra

John swallowed nervously. What could the secret service want with him? He'd had some basic involvement with them in Afghanistan, but no more than the other medics. Besides, he was a civilian now. And invalid.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked instead, tossing it back.

Anthea didn't reply.

To be fair he didn't expect to be answered.

The taxi glided smoothly into an ancient and abandoned warehouse. The doors suddenly unlocked, John lurched himself out of the car and spotted a dimly lit figure.

For christ's sake, he'd left his cane by the fountain. John limped forward, meeting the stranger's eyes with harsh determination.

The figure strode over, easily walking twice John's speed, umbrella swishing, and greeted John with a dead smile.

"Who are you supposed to be?" John said bluntly. "You're Secret service?"

"A concerned party," corrected the man. "Would you like a seat, Doctor Watson? Your leg must be hurting. Sit down."

John deflected the command with an impatient frown. The taller man glared down his pointed nose. He didn't pull rank, John noticed, but his icy carriage seemed unused to being defied.

The umbrella's tapping echoed in the concrete space. "London has an abundance of security cameras. They are rather my speciality." Said the man, his tone now laced with threat.

John maintained his frown. What exactly was that supposed to mean?

When no response followed for several long moments, to his quiet satisfaction John noticed a large vein beginning to bulge on the fatter man's forehead. Whatever the secret service wanted with him, they could damn well notify him in advance. Not whisk him off to the other side of London, taken hostage in a cab. On the Great Lustrum, of all nights!

The man jabbed the umbrella viciously into the floor as though it would give the response he wanted. Then he swung around to face John, with such an air of cool collectedness that John was suddenly unsure if the vein was imagined.

"You've taken an interest in Sherlock Holmes," The man said swiftly.

This was the furthest thing John had expected the fat man to say. Surprise made him splutter, "I – yes."

To counter the man's briefly triumphant gleam, John added, "He's my Potential."

The balder man's voice was deadly. "Is he now?"

"Same manu meridiem colour. Same light strength." John said, listing his points on his fingers. "Same soul's home. Yep. I'd say he's my Potential. And I'm not sure how this is any of your business."

"And yet it is still manu meridiem. Not manu lumen."

Anger coloured John's face, and he said hotly, "Maybe it would be if some stupid taxi hadn't kidnapped -"

"Sherlock takes the most efficient route in anything he actually decides to do. He never calls if he can text. He never concerns himself with pleasantries if he can get straight to the point. You have not joined hands." The man was circling John predatorily. "Which would be the most logical course of action upon meeting your Potential."

John didn't reply; he could hardly dispute the fat man – he'd met Sherlock for less than a minute.

The man whispered vainly, "He put his glove back on."

John pursed his lips. "If your precious security cameras had microphones, you'd also know he invited me to live with him."

Umbrella man's eyes widened in mock consideration. "I regret to inform you, Doctor Watson, you are not the person one would expect Sherlock Holmes to have as his Potential."

"Who, then?"

The posh man's forced smile returned. "There are certain people we keep -"

"'We'"? John interrupted.

"The government," the man said, explaining nothing. "We keep tabs on. Exceptional people, on both sides of the law. Exceptional people need rivals - an adversary to confront."

He lent in close to John. "An arch enemy. They create each other. Improve each other."

"So you think Sherlock is exceptional, and I'm not?"

"That much is obvious."

"Let me tell you, as a doctor, as someone who studied the science of meridiems, your Potential can be absolutely anyone. And your deciding to categorise Sherlock in a little label box does not automatically disqualify everyone else on the planet you think isn't up to scratch."

"There is one man in particular who has long been considered to be Sherlock's Potential by people vastly more intelligent than you."

"Really." said John, unimpressed.

"He is the villain in Sherlock's fairytale, if you like. They need each other."

"Then why am I the one with this?" John said, and pulled off his left glove. His meridiem shone out, illuminating the sparse room with brilliant yellow. After a moment the fat, public school man unthawed slightly from the shock, and his hand reached out – tentative and reverent. John closed his fist with a scowl.

"Does the villain have a meridiem like this? He demanded.

"I am not at liberty to indulge that information." Said the man, calm demeanour once again intact.

"Look, why do you care, who the hell are you?" John burst out.

"I worry about him," the man said severely. "Constantly."

"Well, don't."

John ignored the first smile to reach the man's eyes. "You're very loyal, very quickly." The man said.

John pointed at the hands resting on the umbrella's handle. "You have no lumen. You don't know what it's like to meet your Potential."

"With all due respect, Doctor Watson, I'm not sure you do either." The man raised his hand as though showing it off. "This glove happens to be a successful prototype that masks all traces of manu meridiem and lumen. It would not do for someone in my position to have their ... status widely known."

A large silence stretched between the men.

"It has been interesting to note," said the fat man delicately, "the way your intermittent tremor and psychosomatic limp have reacted to these proceedings."

"Is that everything?" John said rudely, turning away.

"Whilst this meeting has been very enlightening, I suggest you drop any notion you still hold that Sherlock is your Potential." The man called as John hobbled passionately back to the cab. "Every observation I have made of him has firmly outlined who his Potential will be. I confess you are surprisingly commendable on a number of points, but I will not reject my hypothesis."

"Yeah?" John muttered, sick of the posh man and his swanky talk.

"I know Sherlock rather well, you see. He is, after all, my brother."

John paused halfway through wrenching open the cab door.

"Your brother?" he gaped at the smug, arrogant bastard standing across the room.

"I regret your impeding disappointment." The man replied, and strode off.

John pulled himself into the cab, the slam of the door echoing around him.

"Lauriston Gardens," he said shortly.

Anthea muttered, "We can go," to the driver, and John was left to stare at his manu meridiem and wonder if he hadn't gotten everything completely wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

Anthea confirmed that the spot lit crime scene was in fact, where he was supposed to go, before the cab dumped him unceremoniously nearby and John found himself walking stiffly up to a bored looking policewoman, hoping his Potential was her co-worker.

Clearly guarding the crime scene tape, her impatient glare suggested a history of shooing curious pass-byers away. She had a hand raised well before John was at the tape.

"Hi, I'm um, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. Do you know him?" John called as he limped over.

Her eyebrows rose before assuming an even deeper frown, blue police lights flashing over her features.

"You want to talk to the Freak?" she said disbelievingly, crossing her arms.

"If that's Sherlock Holmes, then yes? Is he here?"

"Just arrived," she replied scathingly. "Why."

"It's a personal matter. If you know when he clocks off, I can wait."

The policewoman snorted, her curled hair bouncing. "Oh, he's not employed. He doesn't work here."

John scratched his head, confused; if his Potential wasn't a cop, but the cops knew him, why would he be at this crime scene?

"Do you know a Lestrade?" John ventured.

"Yes, he's my boss. Detective Inspector. Sorry, who are you?"

"No one," John said quickly. He'd just have to wait for Sherlock to appear and –

"What's that?" The policewoman snapped, interrupting his thoughts and pointing at him. John looked at her, flummoxed.

"In your hand," she clarified hastily.

Oh, shit; he hadn't put his gloves back on after meeting with the ridiculous fat man.

"That's the Freak's colour. Are you his Potential?" she said in a hushed voice.

"I don't know." John replied heavily. "Maybe. I thought so, but ..."

"Listen then, word of advice. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"What?"

"Did he run off? Leave you behind?"

"Well..."

"Because that's what he does. He's unreliable and he'll always let you down." A small note of passion had entered into her dangerously serious tone. "He's not normal. He's a psychopath." The weight of this police-administered diagnosis hung in the air between them.

"But if you've met him, why haven't you joined hands?" she asked. Spotting John's recoil at this intrusive question, she added, "I just never thought he could have a Potential. No one could work with him, not unless they were as fucked up as he is. Which you don't seem to be."

"An astute observation as always, Sally," a deep voice emerging from behind the policewoman pronounced, and they turned to find the object of their conversation standing serenely before them. "Even though you didn't make it home last night," he added with a sniff.

Sherlock strode easily up to them and lifted the police tape. "John," he said firmly. John looked at Sally for confirmation, who rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

"Oh go on then," she muttered darkly.

"You took your time getting here," said Sherlock as they approached an abandoned building, dramatically flood lit against the night.

"Well, I met your brother," said John.

"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock spat, looking revolted. "What did he want?"

"Tried to ward me off. Seemed convinced I'm not your Potential. As has ... everyone else I've met tonight." John pursed his lips, looking into the man's face for some trace of emotion that would confirm what on earth was going on. Sherlock returned the scrutiny and seemed to register his confusion.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked instead. John sighed, and passed it over.

"Didn't think so many people would be working on a GL night," John commented to fill the silence as Sherlock texted something.

"They all use those websites. The Soul's Home Trackers. Write a list of where your Soul's Home has been and see if it matches up with anyone's," Sherlock handed back his phone without another comment on Potentials and they entered the run down flat.

By the time they'd reached the centre of the crime scene in an upstairs room, John had managed to garner a few more scraps of information about his supposed Potential, including a confusing job title and a newfound appreciation for the adjective 'arrogant'.

But as Sherlock spun around the woman's body and began to speak, John's perception of arrogance was soon abolished, and replaced by sheer admiration for the man's brilliance.

"- so she was going to London for one night – the Great Lustrum; her manu meridiem hasn't completely faded yet – and its pink – before returning home to Cardiff." Sherlock was saying.

At John's remark of approval the detective flushed with obvious pleasure; not unlike how John had reacted a few minutes previously when Sherlock had requested usage of his medical skills.

And barely minutes later Sally's prediction had become true as the man bellowed "PINK!" and dashed from the building.

Back on ground level, John pulled off his paper forensic suit resignedly, handing it to the real life Lestrade. The latex gloves followed suit.

"Hold on," said Lestrade excitedly. "Are you Sherlock's Potential?"

"Ye-No. I don't know. I only just met him."

"Usually only takes one meeting to know the answer to that." Lestrade said with a raised eyebrow.

John nodded and covered up the offending light with his leather ones. "I thought I was, but he doesn't seem to need anyone." John laughed forcefully to hide the poisonous doubt that coloured his words but Lestrade wasn't buying it.

"God help me," he said, "But Sherlock needs someone. If you're that person, give him a chance."

"Several chances?"

"He might need a few, yeah."

Several forensic officers called for Lestrade, and knowing his presence was no longer needed (was it ever?) or wanted, John jostled his way out of the crime scene. The policewoman from before lifted the tape as he approached and directed him to the nearest taxi stand.

"I meant what I said before," she added. "Stay away from him."

John's thoughts were bitter and confused as he hailed a cab and directed it to his soulless, army commission flat.

He was ten minutes from arriving when his phone buzzed. It must be from Harry – had she found her Potential? It was almost midnight!

No – unknown number.

[Incoming text from: unknown. 23.52]  
Baker St. Come at once if convenient.

Sherlock. If convenient? He was on the other side of London, it was midnight, and being the Great Lustrum who knew how much extra this cabbie was charging. He'd considered going back to the fountain; maybe his true Potential was waiting there, drowning in anticipation as he had been; besides, his bloody cane was still there. Left when he ran after Sherlock.

John shook his head, putting the phone down. Their colours matched, there was no mistaking it. Sherlock had approached him. At the fountain. Why had he been there, and revealed himself, if he didn't think John was his Potential, nor wanted to join hands? Although, John was beginning to get a very good sense that rules or conventions were not something that registered in that man's mind.

This was ridiculous, all this dancing around the question. John reached for the phone to send 'Are you my Potential or not?' when it buzzed again.

[Incoming text from: unknown. 23.55]  
If inconvenient, come anyway.

God, but it was inconvenient. The taxi pulled up alongside his flat; the journey had been considerably quicker than usual, although not wholly surprising considering how eighty percent of London were currently huddled in the cold, counting the minutes before they could finally whip their gloves off.

John winced at the price the metre displayed, and was just handing over his card when his phone lit up a third time.

[Incoming text from: unknown. 23.57]  
Could be dangerous.

"Actually," said John. "Keep it running. I'll be back in five."

John sprinted upstairs, the lock on his front door becoming a furiously annoying hindrance, and when he finally burst in wasted no time in grabbing his Browning, stuffing it down his shirt and leaving.

"Baker street! 221." John cried as he slammed the cab door shut. The driver nodded, and pulled from the curb just as the clock ticked over to midnight.


	5. Chapter 5

John's phone, which he had just used to text a murderer, was ringing when Detective Inspector Lestrade burst back into his life. Armed with a flank of forensic scientists, he looked gleefully triumphant upon spotting the pink case sitting in front of Sherlock.

"It's a drug's bust," was Lestrade's pre-planned excuse as Sherlock protested loudly – and accurately, John thought – against the swarm of forensics descending all over the flat's rather very nice interior.

A few deductions later and Sherlock was typing in ' ' as a username; John went over to check the website's progress as Sherlock ordered Lestrade to dispatch a large section of the force in pursuit.

In the resulting argument when the phone appeared to be in 221b, John was just telling Lestrade that they texted the murderer and he phoned back, when he saw Sherlock slip quietly from the living room.

And didn't return.

By the time John had refreshed the website, found that the dot marking the phone's location had moved, realised exactly what was going on and flagged down a taxi of his own, Sherlock was seated across from the serial killer in a dimly lit, sparsely furnished room. He admitted privately that it was a good place for a murder. Quiet, secluded, impersonal.

But so far the only thing the murderer had done was brandish a novelty candle-lighter at him; when was it going to get interesting?

"Not much money in serial killing," Sherlock said in response to the man's tragic backstory.

"You'd be surprised," Jefferson Hope replied, and a thrill shot down Sherlock's spine. He leaned in closer.

"You've got yourself a fan, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie said. "And not just any fan. The Blackhand."

Smirking at Sherlock's rapt attention, he continued, "You might find yourself to be rather a fan of him, too. Mutual fans to the point that you might ... shake hands."

"Did he send you here to play matchmaker?" Sherlock replied scornfully.

"Your brother thinks so too."

That statement had Sherlock mute with shock. It was pathetically easy to infiltrate the British Government, but to get the better of Mycroft?

"No one suspects the cabbie, do they, Mr. Holmes. I drove your new friend right into the arms of Mycroft Holmes and was privy to every word that passed their lips. And within their catalogue of extraordinary gentlemen they have matched you quite convincingly with my employer."

Sherlock considered this information. "You called him the Blackhand. No one's meridiem is black, much less my own."

"He rubs a special powder into his palm, so no one knows its true colour. It stains his meridiem into black."

"Like smoke," Sherlock whispered to himself. At this Hope chuckled.

"You are great, Mr. Holmes. Brilliant. And you have attracted the Blackhand's attention in such a striking way that the only conclusion is that you are matching Potentials." He pointed to Sherlock's gloves. "You haven't met your Potential. Still manu meridiem; you are unclasped."

"And I thought you were a proper genius," Sherlock said, turning away with an ugly glare.

Hope's eyes gleamed. "Ah ... so you think you have met your Potential?" He frowned at Sherlock in scrutiny. "I know how people work, Mr. Holmes. I can read them. I know how they think. So why haven't you tried to join hands yet?"

Sherlock waited impatiently as the murderer studied him. Then Hope said, "This person, Mr. Watson, your supposed Potential... you've been testing him. You have never completely believed in Potentials, and – you're afraid. You can't bear failure and without a Potential you have an excuse should that happen; with one you're pathetic. One of the masses. Reliant on others."

Sherlock's gut twisted as every sentence hit with staggering accuracy, his impression of the man's genius multiplying extravagantly. "You're wasted as a cabbie," Sherlock breathed.

"What's more, you know you're brilliant," Hope continued, his words captivating the detective against his will. "The extraordinary option is appealing. Mr. Watson is dull and ordinary, and hardly worth sharing a room with you, let alone considering being Potentials ... equals... you are not equals."

The clack of two small bottles, containing one pill each, broke the stupor. Several minutes more of Hope's conversation and Sherlock was examining one against the light, the most not bored he had ever been in his life.

"Won't the Blackhand be angry if you murder his Potiential?" Sherlock said as his pill lowered enticingly towards his mouth.

"If you really are his Potential," Hope replied, "You won't be murdered."

At that precise moment the bullet left John's gun, shattered a window, tore through Hope's heart and buried itself in the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

A short time later and Sherlock Holmes was sitting in the back of an ambulance for no reason whatsoever, a ridiculous orange blanket being consistently and needlessly draped over his shoulders. Lestrade was lamenting the dearth of information regarding the shooter; Sherlock shot him a reproachful look.

"Alright," said Lestrade resignedly, "Give it to me."

His deduction regarding the shooter's nerves of steel had just been made when Sherlock's eyes fell on a small, unassuming figure waiting outside the crime scene tape.

Oh, god he'd been stupid.

So, so stupid.

"It's just the shock talking," he told Lestrade as he stalked away, not entirely lying.

He'd known, the whole time; deeply buried, something in him knew as soon as he saw John waiting in the park, hunched by the fountain; even before he'd revealed his meridiem. But he'd allowed emotion to cloud his judgement – how utterly unforgivable. How humiliating to have allowed his reason – his deductions to be tarnished by something as trivial as sentiment. Blinded by prejudice. The only saving grace was that Mycroft had been fooled too. That was twice today; he was losing his touch.

The theory of someone like the Blackhand – no, Moriarty, as the dying cabbie had revealed – being his Potential had been so ridiculously alluring, and fit precisely with his own long-held conjectures on who he would eventually join hands with; it was difficult to resist.

Never had he imagined someone like John. A man made of contradictions; who was surprising, what a delight that was; who looked unassuming but was frightfully, wonderfully deadly.

It was this man that Sherlock walked over to and congratulated on the shot.

"If its okay, I would still like to move into the flat," John was saying as they idly paced the crime scene. "Even if we're not Potentials."

"What if we are?" Sherlock said casually.

John froze, and when he replied there was a distinct tremor in his voice. "What? But we've not joined hands? Bloody hell, even everyone I've met has said we're not."

"The cabbie disagreed too,"

John's response was lost as a sleek black car pulled up beside them and to Sherlock's severe annoyance his brother stepped out.

"Well then," Mycroft said, surveying the scene, "another case solved. How very public spirited of you."

Sherlock did not dignify him with a response.

"And still not joined hands, I see," Mycroft's tone was icy.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your obsession with that," Sherlock said stonily. He turned to John. "Don't let Mycroft's preoccupation with meridiems put you off. He doesn't have one, you see, so the whole business is rather beyond his scope. Did he tell you he had a special glove? Because that story contains about as much truth as his adherence to his diet."

"I'd prefer to think of myself as self-sufficient," Mycroft said.

"You would," Sherlock said, carefully tugging at the glove on his right hand. "This had better shut you up."

He yanked the rest of the glove off, and his golden-yellow meridiem spilled out into the air. "John Watson," he said with great dignity, "It would be an honour to join hands with you."

The kindest, warmest smile that had ever shone at Sherlock broke across John's face. He removed his woollen glove hastily, and their meridiems' respective light seemed to glow brighter in the presence of their partners.

John's eyes met Sherlock's, and then their palms; a tad awkwardly as their dominant hands were mismatched, but they gripped each other firmly. John's pulse thudded against his fingertips.

For a moment that was all he felt; then he realised that what he had passed off as clammy nervousness was growing far hotter than thirty seven degrees Celsius.

It seemed like a ball of energy was accumulating swiftly between their palms. Their hands started vibrating, and Sherlock felt John tighten his grip; neither was letting to now. There seemed to be a thrumming vibrancy to the air, and Sherlock felt a shot of excitement lace his insides as the bits of meridiem that were leaking through their fingertips began to take a new state; part gas and part liquid – like plasma – and curl around their hands.

Then a bomb went off.

Or so it seemed. The concentration of heat exploded outward, shooting down Sherlock's arm with crackling energy and lighting every nerve cell on fire. It rolled down his limbs, and he could even taste it, an off sweetness, though his mouth was dry.

But the lumen. Great sheaths of plasma-light were streaming from their hands, which were so bright he could barely look at them. The lumen funnelled down their arms and into their bodies, before arching back out and joining far above them. His tendrils fused with John's, and they found themselves in the middle of a golden-yellow cage.

John laughed, and the innocent delight caught at Sherlock and then he was laughing too; a deep chuckle that was amazement and joy given voice.

"Why did you wait?" John said, reaching with his free hand to touch the rivers of light circling them.

"There was a case, John!" Sherlock retorted.

A few minutes later and the sun that was their hands was beginning to dim, and far too quickly for his liking the columns of lumen were thinning, until only a loose spherical cage remained, spinning lazily around their handshake.

With regret Sherlock broke the contact, and they massaged the blood back into their hands. Red marks remained on his wrist from John's grip. Sherlock touched them lightly.

His meridiem had faded significantly, with only a small patch of ambient glow remaining, but in its place tongues of golden flame writhed around his hand – manu lumen.

"Dinner?" said Sherlock, moving his arm though the air to examine how the lumen behaved (followed behind in an arc, tracing his hand's path).

"Starving." Said John, grinning, trying unsuccessfully to grab his own, new lumen with his other hand.

As Sherlock discussed the merits of examining the bottom third of the door handle of Chinese restaurants and ignoring the stares of every single member of the police force, Mycroft leant over to Anthea.

"Level Five Manifiestation." He said in an undertone. "Put it on their records."

"Sorry sir, whose records?"

Mycroft nodded at the two receding figures. "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

"Excuse me! Excuse me, please," a woman's voice called after John and Sherlock.

"Yes?" said John, concerned. Sherlock tutted.

The woman clacked over to them quickly, her hair frazzled in the wind but face flushed with excitement. She held up her phone.

"I hope you don't mind; I took some photos. I can send them to you - if you want."

"Oh! Of the manifestation?" John said.

She beamed. "Of course! I'd never thought I'd see one like that! I'm so lucky – so happy for you!"

"It was pretty big, wasn't it," said John happily, reaching over to look at the woman's photos.

It was a good thing she was still hanging onto the phone, otherwise it probably would have fallen to the concrete.

"OH!" John cried, stepping backwards in shock.

Sherlock's attention snapped to him. "What is it?"

"I didn't know; we couldn't see, you understand." John was telling the woman, who was flicking through the photos furiously.

Sherlock frowned and rounded on the pair who were completely captivated by the tiny screen. "Couldn't see what?" he demanded.

"Full manifestation," John replied, a confusing amount of emotion colouring his voice. "Level Five."

"Level Fiv – wing?"

The phone was thrust into Sherlock.

The photo was breathtaking; the enormous arcs of light that had encased them were glowing like a brilliant egg, the lines starting from their hands swept cleaning down their arms before curving back out of their bodies to meet in the middle. And there, behind them; tendrils bursting from their backs.

Full wing manifestation.

Sherlock's wings streaked the air behind his back, reaching high above his head; as opposed to John's, which were wider. The 'wings' were constructed of threads of varying width tracing through the air, some curving back into his body but most flaring out with no return. They were, well, they were beautiful. Sherlock zoomed into the photo until he was at almost pixel level, scrutinising every wisp of lumen captured on the screen. Tracing their shapes, how they linked the two silhouettes buried within the ball of energy.

John was babbling nonsensically at the woman, thanking her repeatedly, and finally the phone was forced from Sherlock's enraptured grip so they could be texted.

"Yep, I've got them." John said, examining his own phone. "Thank you – thank you so much."

Sherlock ensured that the photos were also texted to him as John farewelled the woman.

They resumed their walk to the Chinese, steps even lighter than before.

"So," said John once Sherlock returned his phone, "full wing manifestation."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in an appearance of nonchalance. But he smiled and let his hand drop down, and when John took it up in his own a comfortable, happy warmth bubbled between them. Their lumen danced around their held hands, licking the air, and bathing both men in their golden-yellow light.

THE END


End file.
